


Have You Seen My Demon?

by madasahatter (gaytriangle)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Amnesia, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, But only for one of them, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, M/M, Memory Loss, Pining, Slow Burn, im sorry, im terrible at tags, proposal, you get the picture right
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 18:07:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19381972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaytriangle/pseuds/madasahatter
Summary: One morning, Aziraphale wakes up to find no Crowley in their apartment, or in the bookshop, or visiting Tadfield, or anywhere.And, when he finds him, he finds no Aziraphale in Crowley’s memories.





	Have You Seen My Demon?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Thebicirclegirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thebicirclegirl/gifts).



So. Aziraphale has had an odd morning. It started fine, that was the funny thing. It started in a way that would have been perfectly ordinary, say, six months ago, before Armageddon’t had swept through their lives and made life, in many ways, better. For starters, it was their life, now. Aziraphales’ and Crowleys’. And that was the odd part: he couldn’t find Crowley anywhere. 

Zira woke up with the first rays of rosy dawn peaking in through the window. He stretched, and upon seeing the empty bed next to him, tutted. It wasn’t unusual, per se, but he did wish that Crowley would wake him up, if his wings were aching bad enough to force him from their bed early. He had fixed the comforter, at least. 

So Aziraphale went to make their morning tea, calling out a greeting to their little apartment at large. After the Ligur Incident, they both quietly decided that the bookshop was a better place to be. Cosier, certainly, and with the soft noise of constant people heaven and hell both lacked sorely. Distracted very much by the routine (and the weight of The Box in his pocket, the small square box with its hinges and its cushion and its-), it took Aziraphale a moment to realise what was wrong. 

“Crowley, dear? Did you fall asleep out here again? You know that’s worse for your back than-“ Silence. Crowley was not silent because, as Azi expected, he had softly drifted off to sleep. His boyfriend/partner/best friend wasn’t lying on their couch with all his worry lines smoothed out, looking not a day over two thousand. No, and a quick search confirmed it:

Crowley wasn’t here at all. 

~

Aziraphale would like to say that he hadn’t been too worried. His hair was this tattered when he woke up, he would tell Crowley, and whichever one of your former lot designed pens to splatter ink all over ones fingers deserved a commendation, and the greatest temptation on this earth is that of trying not to bite ones nails. He would tell this to Crowley, and Crowley would laugh, and raise one eyebrow, and Aziraphale would pout and admit how terribly, heart-rendingly worried he had been. The warm hug that would happen then goes without saying. 

As that was not his reality, instead Aziraphale busied himself fixing the shop up and periodically calling Crowley’s answering machine. The first few times, his voice soothed Zira, but eventually even that couldn’t touch the fist clenching around his heart. 

At call number fifteen, Crowley picked up. He sounded amused, bemused even, but not annoyed or even inconvenienced. Why on earth had he left so early, then? “I know I ordered a book, but blimey, if this is what your service is like to every customer, you’ll spend more on phone calls than you’ll ever make back.”

Aziraphale barely even listened to his words, too engrossed in relief. “Crowley! Finally, I got through to you. I was worried.”

A pause. “Mr Fell. I said I’d be over by three pm. It’s not even nine am yet. My order can wait, okay?”

“Yes, yes, of course, sorry to bother you,” said Aziraphale hurriedly, hanging up and dropping the phone as though it burned. Rushing to the order book, he found, as clear as day and in his own handwriting, a crate of secondhand children’s books ordered by Anthony J. Crowley. Oh heavens. If he did indeed have six hours, he’d spend every last one of them pouring over his less mortal books for a reason why half his heart had apparently up and forgotten everything. He felt for the weight in his pocket again, a nervous tic that was fast becoming a habit. 

He needed his Crowley back. 

~

Crowley didn’t pull up in his Bentley. He didn’t pull up at all. He neatly parked what looked uncomfortably like the motorbike of one of the Horsemen on the other side of the street, then walked in like he owned the place. It was painful how familiar he looked: same smirk, same hair, even the glasses were the same. His snake tattoo was missing, though. He gave the traditional British ‘thank-you-for-this-let’s-never-speak-again’ half smile as Zira located the twenty or so books he ordered, but frowned when the angel offered to carry them out for him. 

“Err, thanks. I think I have it handled.” He made to leave, and Aziraphale felt the sudden and fierce longing to delay him, even for a moment. 

“If I may ask... that’s an eclectic collection for any gentlemen, and they don’t seem quite your style. Do you have children?” Rude, that’s what that was. Rude and uncouth and likely to make Crowley run even faster. Marvellously, however, the demon leaned up against the doorframe and spoke, instead. 

“Well, technically, no. There’s a hospital, though, five minutes from home. The kids there get bored easy, and I’ve always had a soft spot for kids. I read to them, make up stories, help them get places...” One of his hands disappeared behind his shoulder, no doubt rubbing at what should be his wings, a familiar gesture of embarrassment that Crowley had adopted pretty much the instant he fell. Zira hoped his expression came off as appreciative and encouraging, not sad or longing. “The hospital staff don’t know wether to love me or hate me, but it’s hardly my fault if they’re up to more mischief after a visit, ay?”

Zira smiled, a sad, soft glow of a smile. “That’s a wonderful thing you’re doing, Crowley. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Well- I hate to impose, but-“  
“No trouble! None at all!”

“In that case,” said a slightly confused sounding Crowley, “one of the kids is mad into witch stories, magical fantasies, that sort of thing. Don’t suppose you stock anything good? He’s read most of the common ones.”

“I have just the thing,” said Aziraphale, and before he could allow himself to regret it, picked up Anathemas’ slightly battered copy of the Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter and handed it to Crowley. 

Crowley examined the cover, raised an eyebrow at the drawing on the title page, and then nodded slowly as he kept flicking through. “This is just the thing, thank you, Mister Fell.”

“Zira,” said the angel, quietly. “You can call me Zira.”

Crowley gave him another unreadable look as he loaded the books into his box and fumbled for his wallet. The box started to tilt dangerously off the little side table- they both moved to fix it- Aziraphale bumped into Crowley’s shoulder, and he let out a string of curses- and the demons glasses fell off. 

Demon, perhaps, wasn’t the right word anymore, the angel realised. His eyes weren’t serpentine, for a start. They were still that golden honeyed yellow that always pierced straight through Aziraphales’ heart, but the pupils werent slitted, they were perfectly mundane and wide with surprise, maybe even discomfort. “Your eyes,” he breathed, feeling like he was in a room with his Crowley for the first time. 

His Crowley who looked incredibly uncomfortable and had immediately ducked down to grab the glasses again. “Yeah, I know. Genetic thing. Kids love it, but it tends to freak out most people.”

“I can’t imagine why,” huffed Aziraphale. “Crowley, they’re beautiful.” The man looked stunned, disbelieving, and Zira continued with a wistful tone. His hand moved to the ring box without even really noticing. “They remind me of... of a good friend.”

~

When Crowley had left and the sun slunk low over the little bookshop, Aziraphale was halfway through a bottle of wine and staring at his phone. Any second now, Crowley would ring, and life would sudden, miraculously, make sense again. As it happens, the phone did ring, but no miracle was involved. Just a spot of witchcraft. 

“Aziraphale! You and Crowley were meant to be here this morning! If the Bentley has forgotten how to be a car again, we’ll talk to Adam, but you could’ve said. I made tea.” Anathema Device sounded much less upset about the waste of tea than Zira would have, in the same scenario, especially if it was that ridiculously expensive kind she had a weakness for. But Anathema was truly rejoicing in not knowing, for once, and having to actually _throw out food_ , because something unexpected happened, was still a marvel for her. Zira wasn’t sure if it would ever fully wear off. 

“Crowley’s gone,” he croaked into the receiver. The line went dead for so long that he almost glanced at the wires to make sure it was still plugged in, but that would take effort. 

Anathemas tone was much less chipper, the next time she spoke. “Gone out, Aziraphale?”

“Gone. Gone native, gone to ground, gone human, just- just gone, Ana.” He forgot how much the American detested the nickname, in the moment, which was truly a sign for her that a catastrophe had struck London. Well. More of a catastrophe than usual. 

“He’s... human?”  
“Utterly. Not a slitted eye or a snake tattoo to be seen.” And Aziraphale would know. He’d risked enough sneaky, pining glances. 

Anathema paused, again, and Zira wondered if some demon was playing with the phone lines. Probably not. Only Crowley really came up with that sort of idea, and he wasn’t- “We’ll be up tomorrow evening, Aziraphale. I’m sure we can get him back.”

“I gave him your book, Ana, I’m sorry. He didn’t recognise it. Or me. I shouldn’t have, but I didn’t know what else to do.... I had a ring, you know. I got it made. For him.”

If Aziraphale had seen Anathema just then, he would have seen her knuckles go white around her phone. He would have seen her frantically write a note to Newt, telling him to back their bag and the few surviving prophecies Agnes Nutter. He would have seen her brow furrow as her jaw dropped, unable to comprehend how utterly lost the angel sounded. But he saw none of that, and only heard “we’ll be there before morning.”

~

In six thousand years, Aziraphale had never woken up hungover. It simply wasn’t part of Her plan, or his style. And yet, six months and three days after the Notpocalypse, he was sitting in the back room of his bookshop being served slightly burned rashers and waiting until the world stopped spinning and he could miracle away the headache. 

The knock at the door felt like it was knocking directly on the inside of his skull. Newt looked disgruntled from his place at the hob. “Who calls by at nine in the morning?”

“Interesting people!” Anathema half sung, already making her way to the door. Aziraphale dragged himself up to follow her, muttering about deliveries, although that wasn’t his real motive. He just had the feeling that he needed to answer the door. 

Anathema opened the door with a broad smile, which faded somewhat when she saw who was leaning against the door with a fake casual air. For Crowley’s part, his smile merely became fixed, plastic, so unlike him that he wanted to scream. The former demon took a long look around the bookshop. He dismissed Anathema, and her foreign, picturesque beauty in her slightly rumpled day dress. He accounted for the smell of bacon in the air, the stale stink of alcohol that still wafted down the hall, and zeroed in on Aziraphale. Aziraphale, who was visibly hungover with a distinctly sleepless air. If it was possibly, Crowley shrunk even further in on himself. “I didn’t know you had a friend over, Zira, or I wouldn’t have come.”

That sounded uncomfortably familiar to the angel, who frantically tried to dissuade his demon of the notion while also missing the significant glare Crowley was levelling at Anathema and the peculiar emphasis on _friend_. He hadn’t a clue why Crowley had turned up, really. He hoped (in a tiny, well hidden part of himself) that it was some part of his friend remembering what they had had. “We’re friends of a sort! I just needed some help last night, that’s all.”

Crowley threw a hard glance at Anathema for a moment, and the witch began to fidget just as surely as if he’d been staring at her with a demon looking out from his eyes. “Well, it’s clear you don’t need me, then.”

Aziraphale reached the door, just then, and took a second to sober up. Crowley looked at him strangely, like he could still feel what the angel had done even if he didn’t understand it. Or perhaps it was just the expression on his face; Zira had never been good at hiding anything, but especially affection. “Don’t say that Crowley!” The trio froze, for a second. Anathema vanished back into the kitchen. Aziraphale took another step towards Crowley, until they were practically breathing the same air. “Stay. Please.”

By the time the duo made their way to the kitchen, Ziras’ hand safe in Crowley’s (merely to lead him through the cluttered shop, of course), Anathema and Newt had quietly slipped out the back. 

~

Days bleed into weeks. Crowley starts calling over almost every morning, and Aziraphale nearly discorporates himself trying to cook breakfast until one morning Crowley tuts, takes the pan away from him, and starts making pancake batter without ceasing conversation. In the evenings, there’s the Ritz, or new little bars where everyone knows Crowley’s name, or even, once, a faithful reproduction of Hamlet in the Globe itself. (Ziras’ enthusiastic heckling is received much worse, this time, but Crowley assures him that he, at least, found it an improvement.)

Some afternoons, they stroll around Hyde Park, discussing nothing and everything, eating ice cream and exchanging laughter. On others, Crowley invites Aziraphale to visit the children with him. He knew Crowley had a soft spot for the littler humans, of course, but he didn’t realise it ran this deep. Even the angel got lost as Crowley magicked up tales of time travel, of visiting ancient lands and defeating dastardly frogs or mysterious, white robed evil doers. He even helps sometimes, providing voices for certain characters or dramatically turning the story to head towards a happier ending. Once, and only once, he left early, as Crowley told the children a story that began with an apple tree, a snake, “and the snakes only friend.”

Sometimes, he could almost believe things were okay. He still kept the ring box in his pocket, though, and he was certain Crowley had noticed him fiddling with it by now. Mercifully, he hadn’t mentioned it. He didn’t want to have that conversation unless there was a good chance it would end with something positive, and his speech had far too many references to their past to be given if Crowley didn’t remember any of it. 

That’s why he was so glad when, nearly a month after they had last spoken, Anathema left him a voicemail at four thirty seven in the morning. It rambled at several points, cutting off and going back in, talking about curses and backlash and healing spells. In the end, Newt cut through, with the simple solution to all of Aziraphales’ problems: Crowley’s mind would be cleared by true loves kiss. 

Right. A simple solution. 

That is why, seven months after a miraculous day in Tadfield, Aziraphale is nervously straightening his wine glasses as Crowley rings the doorbell. “It’s open!”

Crowley walks in, and Aziraphale gives his best attempt at a normal, even, smile. His smiles have hidden love for half a century, now, one more evening shouldn’t be difficult. Crowley sits, half slouching, their knees touching and a warm expression on his face. ‘Oh hells’, the angel thinks. ‘Perhaps this’ll be more difficult than I thought.’

After a moment and a grateful sip of wine, Crowley starts, slowly. “Zira. Did- did we know each other, from somewhere? From before I started getting my books here?”

Aziraphale jumps, not quite daring to hope and staring at Crowley’s glasses, trying to discern the emotions underneath. His voice comes out a shaky whisper. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I don’t understand any of this!” Crowley half-shouts, throwing out his hands and nearly spilling the dregs of wine left in his glass. “Because I feel so- so- so _comfortable_ , here, and I don’t even like books that much but- I mean- everything in my life feels like it makes more sense, now, with you but it shouldn’t!” Crowley takes off his glasses, and Aziraphale can see confusion and pain and longing writ in his eyes. The former demon grabs his hands with a frantic energy. “Tell me I’m not going crazy, here, angel.”

“Oh Crowley,” says Aziraphale. “My dear Crowley.” 

He says nothing else. The words just don’t come. Almost miraculously, though, they don’t need to. All of an instant, Crowley’s lips are over his. His hands are in the angels hair, and he moans, just a little. The world drifts away, just then, the roar of traffic and his beloved smell of dusty old books being replaced by Crowley, Crowley, Crowley. Crowley’s rough lips, his gorgeous, golden, serpentine and sinful eyes, the smell of leather-jacket-charcoal-a-touch-of-cinnamon-and-something-fresh-green-and-uniquely-his. Something electric passes through the air, and Crowley pulls back with a gasp. 

Crowley just looks at Aziraphale, for a moment, his eyes blown wide in a way no humans eyes would have been able to accomplish. “Aziraphale,” he murmurs, and if all the choirs in heaven had been singing the angel couldn’t imagine a better sound. 

‘He’s back,’ he remembers thinking, in the last second before he pulls his friend into a tight and desperate hug that they both needed. 

 

The only problem, of course, with tight and desperate hugs, is that they tend to jostle the possessions in ones pockets. This tight and desperate hug did just that, causing a little black box to slip from Aziraphales jacket and land neatly on the floor behind him. The angel didn’t even notice. 

The demon did, though, and Crowley goes silent, motionless. “What’s that, Aziraphale,” he said in a voice without tone. 

Zira pulls away, confused, and then rapidly pales as he sees what his oldest friend is eyeing up. “That- gosh, it’s nearly a month old, now,” he said, suddenly losing his nerve. 

“What’s inside the box?” Crowley says with insistence, and Zira knows that if he doesn’t speak, he just might pick it up anyway and peak inside, and then the cat would really be among the canaries. 

“I- I’ve known I wanted this since nine teen fourty two, Crowley. I think I might have longed for it since the garden, but I knew I wanted it then for sure. And maybe it’s too fast after- after the last month, but...”

“You’re a bastard, angel.” Crowley was crying. Aziraphale wanted nothing more than to lean over and clear it away, but he was frozen. Crowley’s beautiful eyes outshone the sun, slitted pupils and all. “You’re an utter bastard if you think falling in love all over again will make me somehow less likely to marry you.”

“You’re back then? Truly?” Aziraphales vulnerability leaked into his voice, the anguish of the last month even as he enjoyed parts of it. Crowley just nodded. 

“I don’t remember all of it. Not yet. But as far back as I remember; there’s always been you.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is my longest one shot and I could’ve written double this, easy. Oops.


End file.
